


The Only Cure for Hypothermia

by tillyenna



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Get Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:24:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tillyenna/pseuds/tillyenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is foolish and gets very cold on a mission. Whilst Phil is trying to warm him up, steamyness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Cure for Hypothermia

**Author's Note:**

> This is very silly, and really just a bit of fun. Please don't take it seriously.
> 
> Also I'm pretty sure that some of the things Phil does are NOT genuine cures for hypothermia... screw you science, slash is more important.

They’re in Alaska. Alaska of all places, Coulson is huddled in a cave in a vain attempt to keep warm, but he cannot light a fire for fear of being seen. Barton is a few miles away, trudging through the snow, the mission has been accomplished, the target inhumed, and Clint is slowly making his way through the snow to the pickup point where Coulson waits for him. “Dah nah nah nah nah, da nah nah nah nah,” he sings to himself as he wonders through the snow.

“Is that the Jurrasic Park theme?” Coulson snorts down the comms link.

“I could do with some raptors right now,” Clint replies rather oddly, “Little bit of running away from dinosaurs might warm me up.”

“You’re a very strange boy Barton,” Coulson teases, no hint of a smirk on his lips, but the warmth in his voice betraying his feelings.

It’s familiar and comforting, being on a mission with just the two of them. Technically Coulson shouldn’t be handler to any of the Specialists, certainly his job description reads that he’ll only be dealing with new recruits, but none of the other handlers can deal with Barton, so despite him being one of the best specialists within SHIELD, he’s still on Coulson’s book. It suits them both really, Phil gets to go out on missions that are more than just the basic milk runs they give to the rookies, Clint gets to have Phil at his back. They’ve been working together this way for years now, and the rapport that they’ve built up surpasses the understanding of any of the other agents, with the exception of Natasha. Nat prefers to work alone, and although Coulson is her handler, he rarely accompanies her on missions. Still, she fits in like the third piece of their triangle, and somehow Coulson has ended up with the two most dangerous assets under his command. Barton’s babbling away in his ear down the comms link, and Phil can’t help but think of all the stick he gets from the other handlers. Nobody else likes Barton, they see him as arrogant, uncooperative, disrespectful, whereas Phil sees his initiative for what it is and enjoys his sarcasm, and over time they’ve stopped just being handler and asset, and are friends. They share take-outs over mission debriefs, get drunk together on nights after particularly awful results, and occasionally, sit in a cold cave in Alaska waiting for the evac helicopter to come and get them.

Barton climbs the side of the hill that leads up to the cave where Phil is waiting for him, his fingers are numb by now and he entirely fails to get any grip on the sharp rocks, but thankfully he’s agile enough that he makes it up nonetheless, standing in the entrance to the cave, swaying slightly, he grins at Coulson, 

“Hello Boss, did you miss me?” “Christ Clint!” Coulson swears, “Where the hell are your gloves?” He’s sat there in his cold weather field gear, a warm coat on top, gloves a hat and he’s still cold.

“They got wet,” Clint scrunches up his nose in a half apology, he knows he’s been foolish. “Couldn’t draw with wet gloves, so I took them off... by the time I’d finished they were frozen to the ground.”

“Come here.” Coulson says with a sigh, pulling off his own gloves. He’s intending to put them on Clint’s hands, the residual heat from them being on his own hands should help warm Clint, but as the younger man approaches Coulson’s eyes widen in surprise. “Jesus Barton,” he mutters, “Your soaked to the skin.” 

“Did I mention it’s snowing.” Clint grins, it’s amazing how cheerful he can be when he must be frozen to the very core.

“Get your kit off.” Coulson snaps, they’ll have to be here at least until the morning, and if Clint stays in wet clothes he won’t survive the night.

Clint winks at him as he tugs the outer layer over his head, “Shouldn’t you be buying me dinner first?” he says cheekily.

“Pretty sure I’ve already bought you dinner more than once.” Coulson quips back, searching around in the emergency stash for the sleeping bag.

“How much am I taking off?” Clint’s already down to his t-shirt and boxers, standing there, shivering, his skin tinged blue.

“If it’s wet, lose it.” Coulson says simply, he graciously doesn’t look as Clint gets naked, this level of coldness isn’t going to do a lot to a man’s self esteem, instead chucking him the sleeping bag whilst looking the other way.

“Get in,” he instructs, “At least it’s dry.”

It barely takes a second for Barton to climb inside the sleeping bag, but ten minutes later he’s still shivering.

“Come here,” Phil drags him closer and without standing on ceremony, shoves a hand inside the sleeping bag to check how warm his chest is. “Fuck,” he swears uncharacteristically, “Your core temperature is too low.”

“Am I getting hypothermia?” Clint giggles.

“There’s no ‘getting’ about it Barton.” Coulson sighs, chewing his lip, “With what I’m about to do,” he tries to be pragmatic, and fails to hide the blush that stains the tips of his ears, “Just bear in mind that I have already bought you dinner.”

Before Clint can really register what’s been said, Coulson has already stripped off his jacket and trousers. “Getting naked too Boss?” Clint teases.

“Let’s not take this the wrong way Barton,” Coulson forces himself to use Clint’s last name in an effort to inject some formality into what is turning out to be a very strange situation, “This is just the best way to stop you dying.”

“I’m flattered Sir,” Clint grins at him, as Coulson, stripped down to his underwear and socks, wriggles into the sleeping bag beside him.

“Flattered I don’t want you to die?” Coulson smirks as he wriggles around, wrapping his arms around Clint’s torso.

It’s a tight fit for two grown men in one sleeping bag, but Clint is so eternally grateful for the warmth of Coulson wrapping around him that he doesn’t mind. He sinks down further until his head is resting on Phil’s chest, the older man’s arms wrapped tightly around his back. “’m guessing ‘m not ‘lowed to sleep.” He mumbles softly, the warmth soothing him.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Coulson hisses with such venom in his voice that Clint’s eyes snap open, “We have walked out of too many burning buildings, survived too many explosions for you to die from being a twat who couldn’t keep himself dry.”

“So I’m allowed to die,” Clint grins up at him, “But only if I die in a cool way.”

Without thinking Phil presses a kiss to the top of Clint’s head, “If you’re going to die Barton,” he says softly, “Please do it in such a way that it’s obvious I could never have saved you.”

Clint giggles and shakes his head, “Here I am thinking you cared,” he teases, “And all you’re thinking about is whether it’ll have to go on your record.”

“Damn straight,” Coulson teases back, before swiftly changing the subject away from death, “Now onto your more important assets, how are the fingers holding up?”

“That’s not my most important asset,” Clint smirks dirtily at him, but holds his hands up for inspection, “I can’t exactly feel them,” he admits.

Holding Clint’s hands between his own would involve him letting go of Clint, and he can’t risk his core temperature dropping too far. Coulson groans inwardly, “Put your fingers in my mouth,” he instructs brusquely. “It’ll be warm.”

Clint hesitates, for just half a second, his fingers are both really fucking cold and really fucking important to him, “Does it matter if I get slightly turned on by this Sir?” he says, there’s no teasing this time, it’s genuine concern in his voice.

“Not at all,” Coulson grins at him, easing the atmosphere, “Raising your blood pressure can only be a good thing at this stage. Now come on, let’s save your fingers.”

Clint’s fingers feel like blocks of ice in his mouth and at first it’s nothing short of unpleasant, but within a few minutes Clint is giggling against him.

“’op ‘at” Coulson mouths around his fingers, “I’m trying to save you here,” he laughs as Clint switches hands.

“This is definitely the most surreal situation I’ve ever been in,” Clint mutters against Coulson’s breastbone. He rests the hand that isn’t currently in his boss’s mouth against his shoulder, running a thumb absentmindedly along his collar bone. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a suit on,” he says conversationally, “You’re quite well cut really.”

Coulson merely raises an eyebrow at him, sucking delicately on his fingers. It only takes a moment and suddenly all the silliness is gone from the atmosphere. Clint can feel himself tensing, absentmindedly rubbing against Coulson’s leg, and against all expectations Coulson lets out a barely audible moan.

They both freeze.

“This is awkward as fuck,” Coulson swears as Clint pulls his fingers away from his mouth, cradling them between their chests, “But I don’t want you to die.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Clint murmurs against his neck, not quite up to looking him in the eye yet, “They are feeling better.” He pauses for a moment whilst he realises what he’s said, “And by better, I mean they hurt like fuck, but hey, at least I can feel them.”

“Good,” Coulson smiles softly against the top of his head.

“And hey,” Clint grins cheekily up at him, “Any method to get the temperature up has to be a good thing.”

Phil rolls his eyes at him, “I might want you to live,” he sighs, “But that doesn’t mean you’re getting into my pants.”

“Pity,” Clint laughs against his skin.

Eventually, when Phil deems Clint as warm enough they drift off to sleep, half aroused but mostly exhausted, Phil’s arms wrapped tightly around Clint who is snuggling into his chest.

Phil’s woken by the sound of the chopper approaching. He wriggles out of the sleeping bag, “Come on Barton,” he nudges the archer with his foot, “Wake up, our lift’s here.” He’s pulled on his cold clothes, and is outside waving at the chopper by the time Clint has sat up.

“I’m pretty naked.” Clint stares down at himself under the sleeping bag.

“No way in hell I’m letting you put those wet clothes back on,” Phil glances over to where Barton’s clothes are literally frozen solid. He grabs the backpack with the remainder of their supplies in  and shoulders it effortlessly. Grabbing the case with Barton’s bow in it, he hands it to the archer. “Buckle up,” he says with a grin, stooping down and sweeping Clint into his arms. He carries him out, still ensconced in the sleeping bag.

“Is Barton injured?” Is the first thing the agent greeting them asks as they step into the chopper. There’s only the pilot and one other agent inside.

“Not injured.” Clint grins his shit-eating grin at him, “Stark-bollock naked, but not injured.”

“Barton still hasn’t learnt how to keep his clothes clean and dry.” Phil mutters, the usual dry edge back in his voice, as he places Clint into one of the seats, strapping him in like a child.

“You love me anyway,” Clint mouths cheekily at him, delighting in the way Coulson struggles to keep the smile from his lips.

It’s a fight not to rest his head on Clint’s shoulder as he sits down beside him, but Coulson manages to keep himself occupied throughout the journey by running over the mission in his head and mentally writing his mission report.

As they land on the roof of SHIELD HQ he unbuckles himself and goes to pick Clint up.

“You’re not carrying me in like a child,” Clint narrows his eyes at his superior.

“And you were planning on walking in wearing your birthday suit?”

Clint glances down at himself, “I was going to hop.” He admits, “I’m quite good in a sack race.” 

Coulson forces back a laugh, “Let’s leave any comments about how good you are in the sack,” he says dryly, picking Clint up, “For the moment we’ll just hope the medics have turned up with a stretcher.”

Luckily, for Clint’s dignity, and Phil’s arms, they have, and he’s hauled onto a stretcher the moment they step out of the chopper and Clint is spirited away to medical. Phil goes straight to Fury’s office for his debrief, not leaving out any details, but carefully omitting his personal feelings on the events.

It’s nearly an hour later, and he’s in his office writing up the report when Clint reappears. “How are you?” are the first words out of Phil’s mouth as the specialist steps through the door. He pushes back his chair and stands up, walking around to the other side of his desk and leaning on it.

“Dressed again,” Clint grins, and the twinkle is back in his eye, flinging out his arms and doing a twirl for Coulson. “Dressed again and with no hypothermia and no frostbite. Largely thanks to you.” He grins at Phil, “I think half of medical want to marry you right now.”

“I’m glad you’re ok.” Is all Coulson says, arms crossed across his chest, he stares at Clint, who is stood barely more than half a foot in front of him, and for a moment which could either be barely a flick of the second hand, or could have stretched into eternity, they stand there, surveying each other, mentally running over the events of the past twelve hours. There is no tension between them, just an odd kind of resignation, before Clint finally swears under his breath “Fuck,” and leans forward to press a kiss to Coulson’s lips.

Coulson smiles into the kiss, and lets one of his hands come up to tangle in Clint’s unruly hair.

With a little huff of delight, Clint lets his tongue slip between Coulson’s lips, brushing against his handler’s.

Softly, slowly, Coulson pulls back, pressing a gentle kiss to Clint’s lips in parting. “You need to go.” He breathes softly.

Clint jumps backwards as if he’s been burned.

“No,” Phil winces inwardly, “That came out sounding all wrong.” He lets his fingers trail across Clint’s cheek, “What I mean is, I have to finish this mission report and I’ve got a stack of paperwork that needs to be done today, and if you stay, I’ll just ignore it all and stand here kissing you.”

Clint grins, “I’ve broken you for paperwork haven’t I?”

“You broke me long ago,” Phil replies with a laugh.

“Can we pick this up later?” There’s just a hint of nervousness tingeing Clint’s voice as he asks.

Coulson grins, letting his forehead rest against Clint’s and pressing kiss to Clint’s lips, “Oh yes.” He whispers.

For once, Coulson is out of the office before seven o’clock. Admittedly 6:30 isn’t much earlier than seven, but it’s a lot earlier than he usually leaves. The roads are mercifully quiet, and he contemplates calling Barton on his hands free as he makes the drive home, but decides he’d rather do it from the comfort of his living room.

When he pulls into his drive at 7:05 his living room light is on, and Phil Coulson is the kind of man who does not absent mindedly leave his lights on. He draws his pistol from its holster, and pushes the unlocked front door open. Silently he moves through to the living room, peparing to shoot, when he finds   
Barton sprawled on the sofa staring mindlessly at the TV.

“You broke into my house?” He starts incredulously.

“Oh hey Boss.” Clint doesn’t even flinch, tilting his head back and grinning infuriatingly at Phil.

“Why did you break into my house?” There’s an edge of panic to Phil’s voice.

“I didn’t.” Clint rootles around in his pocket and hold up what he finds as a trophy, “You gave me a key, remember?”

The memory comes flooding back to Phil, it was years ago, “For use in emergencies,” he chastises, “This is not an emergency.”

Clint just shrugs.

Shaking his head in amusement, Coulson lets his gun drop. “Did you eat yet?”

“Nah,” Clint seems more interested on the rubbish blaring across the television than  in turning to talk to Phil, it’s probably nerves, and Phil can’t blame him, he’s a little on edge himself.

“I’ll cook,” Coulson says, “Nothing fancy, but we probably ought to have something after being on rations.”

It turns out Coulson’s ‘nothing fancy’ is fancier than what Clint would consider a gourmet piece of home cooking, he’s at the stove, several pans in front of him, making up pasta and a fresh sauce. Clint stands in the doorway for a moment, chewing on his lip. He’s never sure if Coulson’s aware of his presence or not, no ordinary citizen would be able to, but Coulson’s anything if not ordinary. He takes a breath, remembering Coulson’s reaction earlier that day in his office, and walks calmly across the kitchen to stand behind the older man, sliding his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. “Nothing fancy ey?” he teases.

“It’s not.” Coulson doesn’t turn to look at him, but there’s the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Just because it’s not straight out of a jar, doesn’t mean it’s fancy.”

“You overestimate my cooking skills,” Clint murmurs into his shoulder, “I’m good with take-out, anything else I burn.”

For a moment, they stand there, in comfortable companionable silence, Clint letting his thumb brush against Coulson’s stomach through his shirt, pressing his lips against his handler’s shoulder.

“Move,” Coulson pushes him backwards as he steps away from the stove, heading to the sink to drain the pasta.

“Could I help you?” Clint offers nervously.

Coulson turns and shoots him a look, “One day? Yes. Today? No.  I don’t fancy you going from hypothermia to burning yourself in less than 24 hours.”

“Spoilsport,” Clint sticks his tongue out at him.

They carry their plates of food through to the living room, sitting side by side on the sofa watching a film on television. Clint is surprised that Coulson doesn’t even bat an eyelid when he puts his boots up on the coffee table, he nudges him with an elbow, and points at his feet, defying him to challenge it.

“And?” Phil smirks at him, knowing the best way to deal with Barton is not to rise to his silly tricks.

Disappointed, Clint pouts and turns his attention back to the film. His disappointment doesn’t last long however, as after he’s cleared the plates away from dinner, Phil sits back down beside him on the sofa, and wraps a casual arm around his shoulder. Grinning to himself, Clint leans in towards him, letting his head fall to rest on Phil’s shoulder, one arm flopped across Phil’s waist.

They watch the rest of the movie like that, cuddled up together, but as the credits roll Phil can’t stifle his yawn. “Want to stay?” He manages to say casually to Clint.

“That would be nice.” Clint can’t stop the blush that lightly colours his cheeks.

Coulson quirks an eyebrow at him, amused, and jerks his thumb towards the stairs. “Shall we?”

To his surprise, Coulson doesn’t lead him into the bedroom, but instead the bathroom, opening one of the drawers under the sink he takes out a wash bag and hands it to Clint.

Clint stares at it in amazement, it’s full of brand new toiletries, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a razor, his usual brand of deodorant and body wash. His name is sharpied on the outside of the bag. “Were you expecting this?” He asks Coulson in amazement.

Coulson shakes his head, laughter in his eyes, and pulls the drawer open further to reveal a slightly larger wash bag, with Natasha’s name on it.

“Oh.” Clint suddenly feels very stupid, “For emergencies right?”

“I like looking after you.” Phil admits, and brushes a kiss against Clint’s cheek.

For two people who’ve barely kissed it’s surprisingly companionable as they stand there brushing their teeth together. They’ve been sharing quarters with each other on missions for years now and the familiarity of it soothes Clint’s nerves. They begin to return as he follows Phil into the bedroom, but Coulson is not phased, and more bizarrely, not trying to seduce him. He hangs his suit back up in the closet, putting the tie on a special tie rack, removing his holster and placing it on the bedside table, before putting his shirt and socks into the laundry basket. Standing there in only his underpants he still manages to looking intimidating as Clint discards his t-shirt on the floor. He sighs, and picks it up, throwing it in the laundry basket with his own, before adding, at Clint’s mildly baffled look, “You think I’d keep a wash bag for you and not have at least one set of clothes for you?”

“Sometimes you frighten me with your efficiency.” Clint admits as he steps out of his jeans, folding them over the back of a chair, conscious of Phil’s watchful eye.

For the first time, there’s almost a hint of awkwardness as they climb into bed together, but Phil reaches out and pulls the younger man towards him, pulling Clint half onto his chest.

“Now,” he whispers softly, pressing a kiss into Clint’s hair. “Where were we?”  
Clint hesitates, only for a second, before tentatively reaching up and letting his fingers trail across Coulson’s bottom lip, “Not sure Sir,” he replies cheekily, “Think it was somewhere round about here.”

It shouldn’t shock him when Coulson draws his fingers into his mouth and sucks, that was what he was hinting at after all, but it does shock him and he’d like to claim it’s the shock that’s responsible for the debauched moan which passes his lips.

Clint’s expecting it to be hurried, fast and passionate as first times always are, but as usual Phil Coulson is in absolutely control of the situation, he spends what seems like hours trailing his fingertips across Clint’s skin, teasing him, sucking on his fingertips until Clint is reduced to begging him.

“Please Sir,” he murmurs.

“Fuck.” Coulson swears, surprising him, biting down onto Clint’s collarbone in an attempt to regain some sort of control, “I was not prepared for you calling me Sir right then.”

Clint grins cheekily at him, delighting in the fact that he’s the one that’s made the unflappable Phil Coulson lose control, however momentarily. “Sorry Sir,” he drawls, not a hint of apology in his voice.

“No you’re not.” Coulson growls, and nips at his collar bone again. “How do you want to do this Barton?” he asks, there’s no uncertainty in his voice, but that’s only because he’s had years of training to mask his emotions.

“You’re the boss, Boss.” Clint smirks at him, and, if the meaning didn’t come across enough, spreads his legs a little further apart.

Coulson nearly comes apart there and then, and he likes to think that he shouldn’t be held responsible for the moan that escapes his lips. “Get naked then specialist.” Ordering Clint around seems like the only way he’s going to be able to keep control of the situation, and if he doesn’t have control he’s pretty sure he’s just going to come on the spot.

Obediently, Clint tugs his underwear off, biting his bottom lip as he observes Coulson doing the same, before he can realise what’s happening, Coulson’s leant over to take a bottle of lubricant, and a condom out of his bedside table.

“OK,” Clint smirks, “Now I know you were expecting this.”

“Shhh,” Coulson teases, pressing a kiss to his lips, “I was a boy scout.” “Now why doesn’t that surprise me.” Clint snorts with laughter, wrapping one leg around Coulson to bring him closer, he’s just about to tease him more, when Phil presses a cool, slick finger to his opening, and everything else is blown out of his mind. “Fuck,” he moans softly.

“You want this then?” Coulson double checks, he’s pretty certain the answers yes, but he was to be 100% sure.

“Fuck yes.” Clint breaths, canting his hips upwards, “Please.”

That’s all it takes, and Phil’s slipping a finger inside him, one day, he’ll do this slowly, make the archer beg for what he wants, but for the moment, he gives Clint exactly what he wants, twisting his finger around until the younger man is seeing stars. “Another?” the question is asked softly, and he punctuates it by pressing just the tip of middle finger against Barton’s entrance. The only answer is a keening noise and Clint’s hips bucking upwards, and with a smirk, he slides his middle finger in to join the first.

He’s barely been stretching Clint for a minute, before the specialist is swearing at him again, “Fucking fuck Coulson, I’m fucking ready already. Fucking fuck me.”

Coulson can’t resist the opportunity to be that little bit of a bastard. “Ask me nicely.” he smirks.

Clint bites down on his lip hard, “Please Boss,” he asks, there’s no doubt about it, his tone couldn’t be called anything other than begging, “I want you in me.” 

Yet again, Coulson surprises him with his amazing competency and ability to be good at anything, tearing the condom free with his teeth and slipping it on with his left hand while the fingers of his right hand are still doing things which are so unmentionably pleasurable to Clint, and he can’t stop the moan at the thought of how fucking competent Phil is all the fucking time.

Coulson smirks, as if he can read exactly what’s on Clint’s mind, and slides his fingers out, lining his cock up before asking, “You sure about this Barton?”

“Please Sir,” Barton moans and it’s all he has to say before Phil is pushing into him. It’s not the first time he’s done this, but it’s been a while, and the shark intake of breath at the burn nearly chokes him, and Coulson can clearly tell, and he pauses, sheathed to the hilt in Clint, and presses a kiss to his neck.

“It’s ok,” Coulson mutters, “You’re ok,” and it’s the exact opposite of filthy and Clint is amazed at how he’s lying here in bed with his boss fucking him and it’s not filthy, it’s perfect and safe and what he’s been missing in his life all along even if he hadn’t realised that until this very moment. And then Phil starts moving again and all the thoughts fly out of Clint’s head leaving only stars and Phil Fucking Coulson.

It doesn’t take much longer, with Phil’s cock inside him, his own trapped between their bodies, rubbing against Coulson’s ridiculously muscled torso, slick with sweat and he’s coming hard, clenching around Phil hard enough to make the older man come himself with a muttered profanity and a moaned ‘Clint’ Phil collapses on top of him.

For a few moments there is nothing but stillness, the sound of their ragged breathing filling the small room, Clint’s fingers on the back of Coulson’s neck, Phil’s head resting on his chest neither of them bothered about how sticky they are. Then Clint lets out a breath, one he hasn’t realised he’s been holding.   
“I’m sorry to say this Sir,” he says, his voice grave, “But we probably ought to have been doing this ages ago.”

“Oh fuck yes,” Phil lets out a huff of laughter against Clint’s chest, and then reaches up to press a kiss to his jaw, and then, stretching a little further their mouths meet and his tongue is sliding between Clint’s lips and it’s not hurried, or passionate, but it’s so fucking open than Clint can feel tears pricking at the back of his eyelids at quite how easily Phil Coulson is giving himself to him.

Phil let out a little smile against Clint’s lips, “I’m going to have to practise my ‘I completely didn’t get laid last night’ face for work tomorrow aren’t I?”

“Why?” Clint smirks dirtily, “‘Cause just so you know I’m going to be dancing down the corridors and I’m pretty sure everyone’s gonna know I just got laid.”

There’s a flicker of Phil’s eyelid, the one that Clint knows means “You make me want to laugh because I love you so much Barton.” And it astonishes him that he’s seen that expression on Phil’s face countless times before, knowing it meant that and he still didn’t twig.

“It’s alright if everyone knows you got laid,” Phil sighs, “They rather expect it of you. But if everyone knows I got laid, they’ll know it was you, and I’ll never live that down.”

Clint pouts at him, teasingly, “Ashamed of me boss?” he asks, there ought to be a hint of insecurity in the question, but there isn’t because he’s lying in bed, with Phil Coulson wrapped around him, and there’s nobody else that gets that kind of treatment from their handler.

“Absolutely.” Phil smirks at him, “Although I will warn you know, whatever we do, Nick will know.” 

“He knows everything. “ Clint mumbles, sleep is rapidly grabbing hold of him and he reaches out to wrap both arms around Phil as if that will anchor him in the world of the waking.

“Go to sleep Clint,” Phil rolls off him eventually, pressing a kiss to the archer’s cheek. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

“‘nk you” Clint mutters softly, his eyes drifting shut.

“What for?”

“Not letting me die,” The words are soft, barely audible, but Phil hears them anyway.

“Never.” he promises, sealing it with another soft kiss to Clint’s lips before they both drift off to sleep.

 

Clint’s on the range, earphones secure, even though he’s using his bow and arrow, because other peoples guns are deafening him, when Natasha finds him the next day. She doesn’t say anything, just pulls on her own headphones, clicking them so they can communicate privately with each other, and stands beside him, Firing shots over his shoulder into the same target as him.

For a while, they continue like that, until Clint’s out of arrows, wandering down to the target to collect them and Natasha keeps stride with him, talking to him through their private comms channel, under the sound of gunfire. “I heard you got hypothermia.”

“You heard correct.” Clint can’t keep the smirk out of his voice.

“How are you not dead?” She says it like ‘Why are you not dead? When will you stop bothering me?’ but Clint knows she loves him like the brother she never had.

He shrugs a little, any other person who asked the question would just get fed a load of b/s about how awesome he is, but this is Tasha. “Coulson.” he answers honestly, and as he thinks about it, there’s that tell tale blush that just stains the edges of his cheekbones. No-one else would notice it, but Natasha isn’t anyone else.

“Fuck.” She swears, a hint of amusement in her voice, “Did you two finally get your shit together whilst on a mission?”

“Not whilst on a mission.” Clint sniffs haughitly, “We waited until afterwards.”

“And?” Natasha can’t resist nudging him with her elbow, vying for details.

Clint just shrugs, glancing at her under his eyelashes, before a grin breaks out over his face and he answers with “Fucking good cure for hypothermia.”


End file.
